


The Light Is No Mystery

by QuickSilverFox3



Series: Breaking The Bones of Your Heart [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Decisions, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: Out of all the bad things that could have happened in this tiny tavern, in this village on the edge of nowhere— chosen specifically for that very reason— encountering another Witcher was one of the worst.-Jaskier is a Witcher (of sorts), and he encounters Geralt of Rivia in a tavern.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Breaking The Bones of Your Heart [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678042
Comments: 30
Kudos: 401





	The Light Is No Mystery

**Author's Note:**

> I'm putting my own spin on the Witcher!Jaskier trope because I love it

Out of all the bad things that could have happened in this tiny tavern, in this village on the edge of nowhere— chosen specifically for that very reason— encountering another Witcher was one of the worst. 

Jaskier knew something was wrong from the moment he woke up, scream trapped in his throat and the trigger for his concealed dagger pulled so tight it threatened to cut his own flesh. It wasn’t just the fear still coursing through his veins, tainting the air around him with a stench so thick he could barely breathe for it. There was something else on the air, something he hadn’t smelt for a long time. Beneath the fear, and the oils he covered himself with— didn’t matter the type, just had to mask his own lack of human scent— and the other scents that spoke to human habitation— blood and sweat and shit— there was the scent of a Witcher.

Jaskier lay in his bed, heart hammering against his ribs, head pounding. There was a Witcher here. A Witcher beside Jaskier himself, but he barely counted, not in the way that it truly mattered. He had to know, had to see what the Witcher was here for. 

Jaskier saw the Witcher the moment he stepped foot into the main room of the tavern, as the other man stalked past the tables for one in the back corner. Walls to his back and side, able to watch everyone in the inn— smart choice. It was an easy enough matter for Jaskier to move around the large room, headache slipping away with every word that passed his lips, always watching the Witcher out of the corner of his eye. Jaskier continued to play his lute, fingers moving through the familiar patterns even as his mind raced. 

He couldn’t panic— panic had killed far greater men than he was— and, anyway, was the Witcher even here for him? There had been whispers of a monster erupting like wildfire and Jaskier liked to think he wasn’t so big-headed that he thought the world revolved around him, regardless of what others said. 

He had to find out what the Witcher— School of the Wolf judging by the grumpy, closed off expression on his face when he had adjusted his hood— knew. Then he could decide. 

Jaskier could feel the weight of the daggers against his hips, the cold metal just resting against the nape of his neck, the small leather bottle resting just against the steady pulse of his heart at his wrist. It was a strange comfort, but it steadied him. He had options, but he needed to  _ know _ .

In another life, Jaskier would have been insulted by the deluge of food and fruit the patrons of that  _ fine _ establishment threw at him, or possibly impressed by their aim. Bread was a difficult thing to throw into a man’s pants after all. But, here and now, it had been almost comically easy to enrage them.

The beginning of a song— meant for a far drunker crowd, played off as a traveling bard forgetting where he was— and that was that. Jaskier slung the lute back across his back, amid calls and jeers about everything from his singing to his mother— long dead now so their insults wouldn’t bother her— and made his way to his quarry, pausing to grab some bread of his own, stomach beginning to growl.

“I can’t help but notice,” Jaskier began, sensing the reflexive swaying begin, an itch buried deep in his chest, “That you alone in this fine establishment—” He didn’t need to look to see the gesture the innkeeper threw at the back of his head “—managed to not criticize my singing.”

The Witcher grunted, curling further in on himself, a ‘No’ if ever Jaskier saw one. He paused for half a second, before continuing.

“Please, tell me honestly. You wouldn’t keep a man with bread in his pants waiting”

His palms were dry as Jaskier slumped onto the seat opposite, another thing the tricky little potions had robbed him of. A flash of white hair as the Witcher shifted minutely away told Jaskier more than a thousand words could have done.

“Oh, I know who you are.”

Jaskier’s grin threatened to split his face in two, even as he fought to keep his eyes locked on the fabled Geralt of Rivia. The burn was manageable as he fought against the mutation's desire to contract his pupils into slits, all the better to watch the play of emotions across his prey’s face.

“No. You don’t.”

The growl would have frightened away any other man, or any other Witcher. Jaskier heard the tables behind them slowly shift away, making their excuses in wordless glances, but their panic was thick and heavy on the air. 

“Oh?” Jaskier tilted his head from one side to the other, wanting to get a better look beneath the hood. Witchers from the School of the Wolf were rumored to have the most beautiful eyes.

Gold. 

“The monsters you sing about? They aren’t real. Leave me alone.”

The words were a growl, reverberating through Jaskier’s bones. The venom was lost on him, as Jaskier stared into the other man’s eyes, and he  _ saw _ . His heart broke all over again, barely healed from his last doomed infatuation.

“Okay,” Jaskier managed to say, mind clouded, hands shaking. Geralt sniffed once, eyes narrowing. He had to leave. Now.

The Witcher didn’t give chase, another person quickly filling the gap Jaskier left, and their encounter faded from his mind as a fresh job was laid out before him. Jaskier envied him. 

Those golden eyes felt like they had burnt into his very soul in the brief moment Geralt had stared at him. Jaskier let the door swing shut behind him, the noise from inside becoming slightly muffled, less distinct, but he could hear the deep rumbles as the man spoke, bargaining for a higher payment.

To travel so close to a Witcher would be close to suicide. Jaskier hadn’t spent long with them, but it had been long enough before his parents bought him back. He was changed. If a Witcher was considered monstrous, then what did that make him, some unholy combination, not truly a Witcher, but no longer human either? 

He blinked, finding that the world in front of him— drab and lifeless browns, he hated it more than he could say— was misty through a film of tears. One hand was pressed against the sharp jut of his ribs, just below his heart. The scar lying hidden beneath his clothes was jagged and raised, aching with every beat of his heart just as it had on the day he had received it. The Witcher, tall and broad with his face marred with a scar curled over one cheek, had died like any other man to Jaskier’s quick blades, but had left him a gift to always remember him by in his dying frenzy. 

“I should leave,” Jaskier whispered to himself, hearing the angry grumbles from inside the tavern turn towards his choice of song once more. The food shoved into his pants would last him until the next town, and he could put Geralt far behind him, barely worth more than a passing thought. And yet…

Jaskier’s thoughts turned towards the man sitting alone at a pockmarked table, beer watered down even further because he wore his symbol proudly. Unwanted and unloved until he was needed, and, even then, Witchers were only tolerated. Geralt looked lonely, hurt by everyone’s rejection even as he tried not to show it, the weight of the world held up on his broad shoulders. Jaskier pulled his fingers carefully across the strings of the lute on his back, scraps of lyrics already twisting in his head.

Travelling with a Witcher was dangerous. But Jaskier could help, wanted to help despite the danger to himself. He was lonely as well, sensing a kindred spirit in Geralt. And, if nothing else, it would pass the time most beautifully. 

As if summoned by Jaskier’s thoughts, the Witcher strode out of the other door of the tavern, purposeful in every movement, a wolf on the hunt. His horse lightly nickered as he approached, and swung himself onto her back, quickly moving down the road. Jaskier waited for a few moments before following, humming softly to himself as he went.

“When a humble bard…”

**Author's Note:**

> [ My Tumblr!](https://inkformyblood.tumblr.com) Requests are always welcome!
> 
> Any inaccuracies are my own doing (plus I can't get Netflix to work properly so am unable to check). I wanted to have the Witcher Schools give their Witchers more of the animal attributes so here we are <3


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